


Perfect Attendance

by LittleSpider



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Cute, Domestic, F/M, Fainting, Fever, Fluff, Hurt, Influenza, Man Pain, Medication, Poor Wesley, Sickfic, Whump, collapse, mid season 1, sick wesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Wesley is Wilson Fisk's personal assistant, and nothing will stand in the way of his Perfect Attendance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Attendance

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sick and wanted to drag someone down with me.

 

Francis knew there was a problem when Mr. Wesley responded to his usual 'Here' message with a 'I'll be five minutes.'

Mr. Wesley was always on time; Often early; Never late.

So when Mr. Wesley came out of his apartment building's entrance looking distinctly worse for wear, his normally neatly parted hair slightly ruffled and his color distinctly paler than usual, Francis knew there was DEFINITELY a problem.

As he opened his employers door for him to get in, there was nothing regular about his movement.

Normally, Mr. Wesley would greet him with a nod, perhaps a 'Good Morning' on better mornings , unbutton the bottom button of his jacket and get in to the back seat of the car with a fluid movement before placing a call to his employer to start the day.

This morning Mr. Wesley practically shambled into the car.

Francis closed the door quickly and got into the drivers seat before looking in the rear-view mirror at his employer.

He looked unwell.

If Francis didn't know better he would have said he'd spent all night drinking and now had the mother of all hangovers but knew Mr. Wesley never drank over his limit in case Mr. Fisk needed him at a moments notice.

His face was sweaty, the skin under his eyes was the color of day old bruises and he collapsed against the seat dependently instead of sitting upright as he usually did, his interests taken by the world outside.

Finally, he moved his eyes to him, whipping the square from his jacket pocket and coughed into it heavily before nodding to him.

“The penthouse.” he croaked, after swallowing and replacing the square into his pocket.

“Sir, are you sick?” Francis asked, almost too afraid to say anything.

Wesley gave Francis a blood-shot glare before Francis pulled off and decided not to ask any more questions.

On the drive over there, he watched Mr. Wesley nervously in the rear view mirror as he took out his phone, staring at it blearily and between sniffs and coughs placed various calls where he almost managed to sound healthy and normal.

Francis was worried about two things.

Firstly, the fact that Mr. Wesley would throw up in the back of his call, admittedly, not the worst thing that had happened in the back of the car whilst he was driving.

And secondly that Mr. Fisk would see Mr. Wesley in this state and blame Francis for picking him up for work in the first place.

When he had finally made his last call, he sat back, his head cradled between the two headrests of the car and seemed to breathe raspily, punctuated by pathetic coughs and hard sniffs for the rest of the journey until finally, Francis pulled up outside of the building where Mr. Fisk's penthouse was.

Hesitating to get out of the car first, Francis gingerly opened his door which seemed to stir Mr. Wesley and opened the rear passenger door.

Mr. Wesley stepped out, his thick dark hair slick with sweat as he looked around dozily.

“...I want you to go across town...” he sniffed. “...and make sure Nobu's men aren't getting too 'premature' with their plans for the block...”

“Yes Sir.” Francis replied. “...Would you like me to return--”

“I will call you.” Mr. Wesley replied curtly, sniffing hard and wiping his hand across his upper lip. “...Thank you.”

It was not gratitude. It was dismissal.

Francis nodded and headed back to the car pulling off, and leaving Mr. Wesley alone.

 

*

 

Fisk was already calling Wesley's cell when he heard the door open. He had left it open for Wesley already but as Wesley was already 20 minutes late, he decided to call and check that everything was running on schedule.

Hearing the latch of the door open, Fisk cancelled the call and turned back to his reflection where he was fixing his cuff links.

“...I was just about to call you...” he began. “You're late.”

“Forgive me.” came the hoarse reply that was thick with phlegm. “I'm afraid I don't have an reasonable excuse.”

Fisk turned abruptly to stare at his assistant who was standing a few feet away.

He looked dreadful.

His face as bathed with sweat, his hair was ruffled and his suit seemed to somehow look ill-fitting..

No...No...it was the way he was standing. He seemed ill.

“...Wesley, are you alright? You look terrible!”

“I'm fine sir. Just a seasonal cold.” Wesley replied, sniffing and swallowing cautiously.

Fisk was not convinced, but decided not to press it.

Fisk turned back to his reflection.

“...Vanessa and I are attending an exhibition this afternoon on that painter, the one who uses scorch marks in their work. She's rather taken with him and I plan to get something for her. Please ensure there are adeq--”

There was a sudden heavy thump behind him and Fisk turned rapidly to see Wesley had collapsed on his side in a heap.

“Wesley!”

Fisk dashed over, pulling the man onto his back to check him over.

He was groaning weakly, his cheeks were pale with blotches of red around his nose and cheeks. His breathing was heavy and raspy.

Fisk pressed the back of his hand to Wesley's forehead the way his own mother used to when he was sick and felt his temperature.

It was sky high.

“God, you're burning up! Wesley! Can you hear me??”

Wesley made a soft murmuring sound, his eyelashes fluttering slightly, clogged together with sweat.

Fisk carefully scooped the man up as much as he could, half carrying him to the couch where he placed him down.

Wesley weighed much less than he looked and Fisk found it easy to move him, he quickly flipped out his phone and called the only other person he knew would be able to help.

Vanessa.

Calling her, he knelt down beside the couch and loosened Wesley's expensive silk tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt to help him breathe.

Wesley rolled his head away from Fisk's hand pressing his face against the cool leather.

Fisk's relief was evident in his voice the moment he heard hers.

“...Hello?”

“Vanessa. It's Wilson...”

“I hope you're not cancelling on me, Wilson.” she teased.

“No. No...I...l need...I need your help, Vanessa.”

“Wilson, you sound--are you alright?”

“It's Wesley. He's sick.”

“Oh?”

“He collapsed....just now...in my apartment...and he has a temperature...and I don't know what to do.”

“Wilson, make him comfortable, and I'll be right there.” she said.

“Thank you, Vanessa.”

With that he hung up and turned his attention back to Wesley who was murmuring against the leather, holding his stomach.

Fisk shushed him softly.

“Shhh. Its alright. I'm going to fix this...”

 

*

 

Vanessa arrived within a half hour, much to Fisk's relief.

He had been pacing, something he did when fretting over something out of his control.

She walked in, brushed her lips against his cheek and put her handbag down as Fisk led her to where Wesley was still lying down, sleeping now. Fisk had placed a waste paper bin next to the couch but it remained unfilled.

Vanessa pressed her hand to Wesley's forehead, her expensive charm bracelet grazing his hair and nodded to Fisk before kneeling down in a pristine white sweater and black pants to check on him.

His face was relaxed sleepily, his eyes were bathed in sweat with brown rings under them and his cheeks were blotched.

“Help me get him out of his jacket.” she began quietly to Fisk.

Fisk meekly walked forwards and lifted Wesley up who murmured softly in response as she got him out of his jacket.

Fisk folded it carefully over his arm as Vanessa placed some pillows under his head before feeling something unusual in the pocket inner breast pocket of the jacket.

He reached in and pulled out the strip of tablets. Cold and Flu. Four left out of twelve.

“...Vanessa.”

She looked up at what Fisk was holding and nodded.

“He's got the flu.” she began. “He's been medicating.”

“Shall I call my physician? I can get Doctor Rosenberg here in the hour.”

Vanessa gave a soft laugh that made him feel small, yet warmed his heart.

“...No, Wilson. He just needs to rest.”

“...I...I...He lives alone.” Wilson reported quietly. “...I'd rather him not be alone when he's like this.”

Vanessa nodded.

“Of course.”

“I...Do...Do you think he could stay here? In the spare room?” Fisk replied to her.

“I think that would be a good idea. We can cancel our trip to the exhibition.”

“...Vanessa, if you would like, I could ask one of my men to accompany you.”

“It's not the end of the world, Wilson. Besides, he's your friend. And he needs you.”

Fisk nodded.

“Now, go and get me a cold, wet cloth.”

Fisk nodded and headed to his bathroom to rinse out a face cloth.

 

*

Vanessa pressed the cool cloth to Wesley's neck as he breathed heavily in response, moving his head away from it as if it were an irritating fly.

Vanessa shushed soothingly and pressed it against his forehead insistently.

Wilson had moved him to the spare room, a room he rarely disturbed but that his house keeper cleaned weekly.

Vanessa explained that by the looks of things Wesley had taken over the suggested dosage when it came to the meds and as a result had become drowsy and sleepy.

Fisk had surmised it was for the best. Even as a child he had had a good constitution and had rarely got sick. Living on a farm only strengthened that so seeing anyone else sick was a little unsettling.

Vanessa had removed his belt, took off his shoes and unbuttoned a few more buttons of his shirt and removed his glasses.

Fisk had found a spare blanket in his linen closet and had draped it over his assistant before hovering nearby.

“...In all of the years...” Fisk began quietly as Vanessa tended to Wesley's temperature. “...that Wesley has worked for me...with me...he's never been this sick.”

Vanessa looked up at Fisk, reaching for his hand.

“...People get sick, Wilson. There's nothing you can do.”

“Perhaps...” he began, taking her hand and stroking her slender, soft fingers “I...I work him too hard...He's...always...taking care of...me...”

“He enjoys working for you, Wilson.” she replied, squeezing his hand in hers. “He came to work today, like this, because he wanted to be here.”

“...He'll be alright, won't he?”

“It's flu, Wilson.” Vanessa smiled. “Not Malaria. As soon as his fever breaks, he'll start to feel better...”

“How did you become so good at taking care of people?” Fisk asked quietly.

Vanessa smiled up at him and carried on tending to Wesley's fever.

*

Wilson replaced the cold wash cloth on Wesley's head as Vanessa sat quietly in the rocking chair of the spare room, reading a magazine.

Wesley's eyes opened blearily.

“...Vanessa?” Fisk began urgently.

Vanessa looked over and saw Wesley stirring, his hand reached out for his glasses, jostling the drink on the table.

“...James...” Fisk began softly, handing him his glasses.

Wesley pushed them onto his face, his eyebrows raising as he looked up at the cold wash cloth.

“...Wh---what happened?” he said raspily looking to Fisk.

“You collapsed in my apartment. You're sick.”

Wesley swallowed painfully, his eyes moving from Vanessa, to Fisk, to the fact he was in bed, in Fisk's apartment.

“...I'll call...Francis...I'll...get him to pick me up.”

“James...I...I would...” Fisk floundered. “...What I mean to say is...”

“You're staying here tonight.” Vanessa smiled softly. “Wilson and I don't like the idea of you going home and collapsing again. Can't have that handsome face bruised.”

If gratitude had a face, it was Wilson Fisk and if embarrassment had a face, it was James Wesley.

“Sir.” he took a raspy breathe. “I can't imp--”

“Nonsense.” Fisk replied firmly. He briefly glanced behind at Vanessa who took the hint.

“...Wilson, do you have soup?” she asked.

“The refrigerator, Vanessa.”

She got up from her chair and walked out.

Fisk looked to Wesley.

“..James.”

Wesley swallowed and fixed his gaze on his employer.

“...If you ever feel this ill again. I want you to call me immediately.”

Fisk sat on Wesley's bed.

“...I'm not an ogre, James. No matter how people paint me. I care...deeply...about those that...that I...”

Wesley stared at him. Even with blood-shot, feverish eyes his gaze was scrutinizing.

“...If anything should happen to you, James. I would be...”

“Understood...” Wesley replied croakily with a nod.

Fisk nodded appreciatively.

“...Thank you, Wesley. Get some rest.”

“Yes Sir.”

Fisk got to his feet and walked to the doorway as Wesley closed his eyes again.

Fisk closed the door behind him and prepared to join Vanessa in the kitchen.

 


End file.
